


Sullied

by bulfinch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Insecurity, Upsettingly fluffy, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28624191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulfinch/pseuds/bulfinch
Summary: He banished the old guilt, showed it forcefully out the door as firmly as if it were trying to buy the very rarest of first editions, learned to revel in the earthly delights of his love.And yet still, sometimes, something ate at him. Not his utter devotion to Crowley. He held that, now, like a sacred thing. But the other kind of shame—the kind that hadn’t been bound up with fear of loss and destruction, the kind that had more to do with his own simple failings than Consequences—that shame lingered. And, somewhere, in some dusty back-shelf of his mind, it festered.In other words: Heaven can be rather good at chipping away one’s self worth. Fortunately, Crowley exists.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68





	Sullied

When Aziraphale had been issued his corporation, it had felt like a blessing rather than a mere disguise. What a wondrous shape. What a splendid thing. He had loved the stretch of skin over muscle and bone. There was pain too, it was true. But when it alighted from him there was relief also. There was the gratitude it left for life’s pleasures—for the warmth of the sun, the taste of wine and _food_ , for the joyous, careening exuberance of the gavotte! Oh the things this body could do! 

Even for all that elation, though, there grew a nagging shame within Aziraphale, a sense of something broken in him. Wasn’t it wrong for an angel to love all this so? To delight so freely in baser things? 

But more importantly, _most_ importantly, there was Crowley. Every nerve and synapse was helpless, sang when he was near. 

The guilt of loving Crowley was a persistent, hollow ache in his gut. And there was the searing, _trembling_ terror of what Aziraphale’s love could do to them. What it could cause. What he could loose. 

And so he starved himself of hope. Hid away his desires. Rebuffed and denied—both himself and Crowley. But in what he had once thought of as his weak moments (far too frequent for a _good_ angel) Aziraphale let his adoration wash over him, and it felt, strangely, unbearably like holiness.

For centuries, the memories of little accidents (brushed fingers, bumped shoulders) were all he had to keep him company in his careful patience, his wretched virtue. Longing after the impossible, willing heresies into existence. He stored the memories up, catalogued them like a library, and called them forth when he could stand it no longer. 

But after the world did a rather bad job of ending, Aziraphale’s most treasured impossibility had become real. And very quickly his poor body was overwhelmed with feeling, drowning in multitudes of pleasures he had no wish to be rescued from. 

There were the more…urgent ecstasies of course, but also the small joys. Hands could be held now. Eyes could stare unabashedly. Aziraphale was filled with gratitude, his corporation scarcely able to hold it all, along with a new kind of recklessness. Come whatever may, he had had enough of hiding away his rapture, of denial, and restraint. 

He banished the old guilt, showed it forcefully out the door as firmly as if it were trying to buy the very rarest of first editions, learned to revel in the earthly delights of his love.

And yet still, sometimes, something ate at him. Not his utter devotion to Crowley. He held that, now, like a sacred thing. But the other kind of shame—the kind that hadn’t been bound up with fear of loss and destruction, the kind that had more to do with his own simple failings than Consequences—that shame lingered. And, somewhere, in some dusty back-shelf of his mind, it festered. 

Crowley had whisked Aziraphale out for a late lunch one rainy afternoon. A new bistro with the most delectable fare. Aziraphale had eaten with more than his usual gusto, sung praises for the coq au vin, and could not resist ordering a second helping of the gâteau fourré à la crème d’orange. 

Now, they were on their way home in the Bentley, in a companionable silence, listening to Franz Schubert’s “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy” on low.

It would have been a lovely, peaceful kind of moment (Crowley’s driving aside). But that festering thing in the back of his mind suggested quietly to him that, in retrospect, he had perhaps been too free with his greed at the restaurant. Lapping it up all too eagerly. Over-indulging in what was surely an off-putting way. 

Suddenly, Gabriel’s voice was in his ears: _Why do you consume_ that _?_

As his eyes passively took in the busy street, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of an advert in a bus shelter. A model lounging against a dark backdrop in his undergarments. Rather like the marble-carved likenesses of Achilles and Heracles of yore. Rather like the sword-wielding defender of righteousness Aziraphale was meant to be, should have been.

_I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter._

There was a tightening in his throat. He tried to swallow it. 

“Everything alright, love?” 

“Perfectly fine, Crowley, dear.” A tight smile and he turned once again to watching the sodden world slide by outside his window. 

One morning, not too long after things had started to turn cold in earnest, little flecks of snow tumbling sparsely from the firmament, Aziraphale was dressing himself leisurely. He was busy musing about the sleeping demon in the rumpled bed behind him, flushing with pride at the memory of the sounds he had managed to elicit out of Crowley the night before. Aziraphale was only just beginning to feel quite smug over a particular keening wail Crowley had unleashed, his angel deep inside him, when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

_Loose the gut._

Suddenly, Aziraphale felt how chilly it was in the room. He turned away from the mirror, quickly pulled on his shirt, and felt an odd gratefulness for his comfy old waistcoat that wrapped so securely around him. 

That afternoon, Aziraphale did not see the pages of his open book, spending it, instead, worrying over the shortcomings of his own physicality. Somewhere around tea time, he came to a conclusion. 

It was not fair, he thought, that he had Crowley in all his perfection, while Crowley must settle for Aziraphale’s…alrightness. Not fair that Crowley must, surely, have to stretch the truth somewhat, however free he may have been with his praise. 

His Crowley deserved more than this. He would endeavour to please his love, to make his own form as enticing as Crowley’s was for him. He had struggled and failed for so long to be good enough for Heaven. Could he not do better for Crowley who had been so much kinder to him? Yes. That was the noble thing to do. The right thing. To better himself for his Heart’s Desire, his Purpose, his Everything. 

Only, why did that resolution leave such a tremor in his chest, a dreadful dropping in the pit of his stomach? 

As evening was setting in, he found the demon in the kitchen. Standing nervously but unnoticed in the doorway, the angel watched his beloved’s lithe form move easily about the room, pulling glasses out of the cupboard and searching drawers for the corkscrew. Unwitting in his gorgeousity. 

“Crowley, dear…” 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley declared brightly, opening a bottle of wine with a flourish. “Fancy a drink?” 

“Not at this very moment, my pet. I was just wondering…” How was one meant to phrase such a thing? Perhaps best to take the straightforward route. “Would you not prefer…a more… _conventional_ corporation?” 

Crowley’s head snapped up to look at him, sunglasses slipping down his nose. Aziraphale saw a shocked hurt in his expression. The demon put down the bottle and pushed the dark lenses back up, hiding his eyes like the sun behind a storm cloud. There was a pregnant silence. Too long. Aziraphale was lost, did not understand until, coldly… “I didn’t realize my form _offended_ you, angel. Perhaps—” 

“NO!” Aziraphale cut him off. It was too sharp, any feigned lightness gone. How could he entertain such a notion? His _unbearably_ beautiful Crowley! Desperately, Aziraphale set things back on course. “I mean…I meant… _me_ …” And the tremor in Aziraphale’s voice made him feel all the more inadequate. Not even able to offer Crowley this without thinking first of his own pain. He made a detailed study of his shoes instead, feeling wretched, wishing he were more worthy of Crowley’s love.

A strangled, scandalized sound from the demon. But before Crowley could speak, Aziraphale was babbling. “I-I could perhaps try to trim down a bit. I know I am…over eager with food. I could try to be less tempted by sweets. Less gluttonous. I should do more really, to keep the old corporation in good order. I might even be able to miracle it away, one could always try, but I’m—”

Suddenly long fingers were gripping Aziraphale’s lapels, thrusting him against the nearest wall—a gesture of force with no real danger. A slender body was covering his in an instant, pressing against him firmly. Nose to nose with Crowley, Aziraphale could see the demon’s eyes flashing behind the dark glass. 

“Don’t. You. Dare.” The anger, at least, was real. “Don’t you dare even _think_ about changing _you_ to suit…Of all the…Where did you even get…” And then Aziraphale was being kissed, passionately, and just this side of roughly. Aziraphale pushed up into the kiss, something like relief flooding through him. He wrapped his arms around _precious_ Crowley, pulling him closer still. 

Lips parted. Air filled lungs. Then, pleadingly: “For Satan’s sake, angel! Don’t you know what you _do_ to me?” 

Aziraphale was still trying to corral his thoughts into an answer when Crowley dropped promptly to his knees, intent on showing him _exactly_ what he thought of his corporation. (And my, wasn’t Crowley’s tongue wicked!) 

Later, as they lay tangled in each other, no comfy waistcoats or tinted glass to hide behind, Aziraphale felt a bit bashful. “I’m sorry,” he said “for causing such a fuss. Although the results may be something of a consolation.” 

Crowley chuckled and then went quiet again. “It hurt…you thinking I wanted you to be something else.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’ve been a fool, dearest.” But the old ache still throbbed dully. 

Crowley’s finger tips trailed over Aziraphale’s pale knuckles, up his forearm, over his chest and his poor, stuttering heart. A corner of the demon’s lovely mouth quirked, rose, fell. And then, so earnest, “Never wanted anyone but you.” 

And with that Aziraphale couldn’t help but pull Crowley to him again, tears coming free. Lips and fingers and every part of his being _so glad_ to have Crowley. To _be_ exactly where and as he was. 

Aziraphale had had enough of inadequacy, enough of shame. He would resolve, instead, to love the eyes that allowed him to see the angles of Crowley’s back, the hands that could splay over the warmth of his skin, the arms that could draw him near, the legs that could wrap around him. And if he forgot his resolution, there was always the joyful, loving, aching hunger in Crowley’s gaze—no longer furtive, but insistent in its newfound freedom—to remind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone else’s lil’ heart go into the fetal position when they think about how terrible Gabriel is about Aziraphale’s eating and weight? Just me wanting to curl up and die every time I see him do that little mock punch to Aziraphale’s belly? 
> 
> Also…let’s be honest. This was partially just my way of ending that scene correctly where Crowley pushes Aziraphale up against a wall. You all know the one!


End file.
